TRUTH: By the great Original Who stirred the primal slime,
It is as if a mincing monkey passed through a garden, And with a dirty finger touched lilies and roses. Smirking, "This shall be moral; this immoral; "This pure ; this impure."
POET: The gods should choke with laughter.
TRUTH: You have put shackles on your souls, but not on Love.
POET: Can there be gods and Love not free? Oh, when will the day come?
TRUTH: Surely it will appear;
But the clock of the heavens is set for Eternity. Man's trail is upward From the first ocean whisper until now. He flew not with wings, But slowly as a snail, Zigzagged upward on the cliff of Ages ; Reaching, trying, feebly feeling, Yet wandering upward, The infinite Ages but a point On a line from Eternity to Infinity.
POET: But now he will put on expanding wings ; As from the worm the glorious butterfly ; And who shall guess his flight?
TRUTH: Only Freedom shall plume his flight.
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